Vices and Virtues
by passionate fire
Summary: What're ya gonna do, Blink?" Race shot back. "Murder me too?"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm not dead! Hooray! **

**Disclaimer: I can't think of a funny one right now, but I don't own newsies, believe it or not.**

**I do, however, own the plot, other characters, etc, etc, etc, etc. **

**Etc.**

…

Before you ask, folks, this is not slash. It's just a story.

…**.**

…**..**

The crowd was huge but that was good. David didn't like it, of course—the way they pushed, shoved, and smelled of smoke was something he didn't want to experience a lot—but that was okay because it was a good selling spot. A newsie always prayed for a crowd, a good number of people all at the same place.

Dave wiped his brow and held his papers in the air, shouting the headlines. Jack was here too, forcing his way through the people, but David had lost him long ago, too intent on his selling. That was good too. He had made nearly enough money to eat for a week, and all because of a large, willing-to-pay crowd.

"Extra, extra!" He yelled. "Get your papers here!"

The people had started slowing down on their buying, now. At first, many had gotten their attention drawn away by David's "selling tactics " (and what he hoped, his good looks) but now they were staring at the large platform erected on the corner. The platform was large and grand, with purple lettering on the sides and gold on the front, and looked just as impressive as Pulitzer's mansion. No wonder everyone was staring.

Dave patted his pockets and felt the jingle of coins. He looked around for Jack once more—there was no sign of the Cowboy—and then glanced upwards. He could afford to be laid back, to listen to what this person had to say.

"—and I can assure ya, ladies and gents, that this wond'ful, most magnificent bottle, is _proven _to reduce aches and pains and sore and bumps and all sorts of …things like that!"

David watched the speaker with a curious fascination. The guy was short and fat, with a long, gray, whiskery beard and curly mustache. He had raggedy clothes—brown suspenders and a beat up white shirt—and stood with the confidence of a wet mop, but still, the crowd was drawn to him.

The little man hopped about on the stage, holding his tonic in the air like a prize. He waved his hands about frantically, trying to prove his point--the people circling underneath him were gabbling disbelievingly, almost turkey-like.

"See, folks? That is the miracle of Captain Kelly's Miracle Elixir!" The man cried. He bent down on his knees. "Look, see how nimble Mr. Kelly's made me! Me! An old man!"

Dave frowned. He knew it was all a hoax, but the underwashed masses (sometimes, David was a little bit snooty) didn't. He checked all around him. The man next to him, a grubby person who smoked cigars, seemed to be buying it pretty good.

"You do know--" Dave started, but the guy onstage cut him off.

"And it's only a penny, too, folks! Only a penny! Think of how little that is!"

_That _really got the crowds going. Oh, boy. They were all murmuring to each other, nudging and poking. _This _was good stuff, of course it was (why would the gentleman lie?) and didn't even cost half a day's work of pay! A real gem, this tonic!

Dave, of course, being _educated, _knew exactly what was going on. This was crowd brainwashing, getting people to spend their money on something that didn't work. It was against the law—some people would call it fraud. And Dave was going to put a stop to this mischief once and for all.

"I bet it doesn't work at all!" David yelled, surprising himself. A whole block of people had turned to him, and he blushed. The man onstage looked more embarrassed than he, like he had been caught in a lie.

_Which, of course, he had._

"That's just a combination of ink and cat's piss!" Dave continued, now rather enjoying the attention. He looked for Jack in the audience and wondered if he was proud of him, the walkin' mouth, for speaking up. "Check for yourself!"

The showman tried to cover it up. "That kid's crazy," he told the audience, sweating visibly. "Why would I lie? It's saved many a life from death, many a child from disease, many a--"

"Prove it!" screamed Dave. He raised his fist in the air. "Prove it! Show us! I bet you've never even got someone to try it!"

"Prove it!" he cried again, and soon the other people had taken up on the chant too, always ready to discredit someone. "Prove it! Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!"

"B-b-b-ut ladies and gentlemen, I don't need to pro…" stammered the old man. Dave almost felt sorry for him, and wondered if ratting him out was the right thing to do. "I...mean…witnesses…I—"

"You're an old fraud! That liquid probably just gives you boils!" Dave said. "You've got no witnesses at all!"

"Get down from there!" jeered someone else in the crowd. "Old man!"

"Now, really," the old man in question said. "I don't have witnesses, but—"

"You've got one," a voice in the crowd stated loudly, and as soon as the voice spoke Dave, swore, because he knew exactly who that person was.

_It was Jack._

There he was, the goddamned fool, wearing that bandana and cowboy hat and looking as cool as you please. Jack was smirking, and he twisted the lasso between two fingers, as if longing to take it out and swing it around.

"Folks," said Jack conversationally, walking slowly up the purple and gold stairs. His arms were hanging loosely by his sides, but as they got to the old man they slipped around the fraud's shoulders easily. "I know how _difficult _it must be to believe Mister Kelly, but lemme tell ya, this guy ain't no joke."

Dave snorted. "He's a fraud."

Jack gave no sign he had heard his friend. He let of Mister Kelly and bounded to the front of the stage, hands above his heart.

"Once," the cowboy said, softly-but-loudly, so that the audience had to draw in to hear. "I was near death, my poor body wasted to shreds, coughin' and dyin' from some sort of foreign disease."

Was that _tears _in Jack's eyes? If they were, they were crocodile tears, and Dave didn't trust them one bit. The loud mob, though, was silenced, and Dave suddenly felt very alone.

"You should've seen me," Jack went on. "My poor mudda was cryin' all the time—I was gonna die for sure—when suddenly, as if by miracle, this Mister Kelly showed up out of the blue!"

"That's a lie!" Dave cried. "You're a liar!"

"He gave me this tonic and I took it twice a day," Jack's voice rose and rose and rose, until now he was screaming, the veins popping out visibly on his throat. "_And by Jesus Almighty, it woiked! This elixir woiked! I was good as new in less than two weeks!"_

His voice dropped again. "So," Jack whispered, hair falling in his face, looking at the ground as if shamed. "Don't you _ever _accuse this man of…of fraud. You'll never find a man as true as _him, _save for Christ himself_!"_

"But it… smells…like…piss!" Dave protested. No one listened.

"Buy Captain Kelly's tonic!" Jack finished, taking a much-deserved bow.

The crowd roared their approval, and _pelted _Jack with coins. It was a job well done on the cowboy's part.

And boy, was the walkin' mouth pissed off.

…

….

…..

After the people had cleared the area, Dave rushed up to the platform with malice in his heart. Head down, eyes blazing, he looked like a man possessed, and so he couldn't really blame Jack for backing up slightly when David had made it up the purple and gold stairs.

"Now Davy," Jack said quickly, nearly tripping as Dave advanced on him. "Lemme explai—"

That was when Dave swung for him. The walkin' mouth actually put up his fists and tried to _hit _Jack, aiming for his nose but really only landing a hard blow to the earlobe. Jack swore, then, and fell backwards onto his ass, holding his ear and looking up at Dave with a hurt expression on his face. "Ouch!"

David felt ashamed. He was painfully aware of the sweaty older man next to him, watching the battle between the two boys with interest, fiddling with the money he had made and not saying anything. Dave shifted uncomfortably, now embarrassed, and gave out a hand to help Jack up.

"Sorry," he said, as Jack grasped his hand and raised himself to his feet. "I just got really--"

"Yeah, okay," Jack said coldly. He was irritated now, frowning at David and tilting his cowboy hat back with an offended air.

"But-"

"But nothin'!" The other man said suddenly, coming out of his money-induced trance and coming over, popping open the buttons on his waistcoat. He had a really fantastic potbelly. "This boy made me richer than I've ever been in a long time! You've got no right to hit him, kid!"

"But-"

"I thank ye," the man went on, pointing at Jack. 'Mister…?"

"Kelly," said Jack. He looked disappointed, for some reason. "Jack Kelly."

"Kelly," repeated the elder. He looked thoughtful, and then blinked, flipping a coin up in the air and grabbing it out of midair. "Kelly?"

"Hi, Pops," Jack said dully.

….

…..

…..

Bet you weren't expecting that, were you?

….

…..

……

Dave couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. It was impossible, unbelievable—the two looked nothing alike. The older Kelly was short, Jack was tall. Jack had brown eyes; the other had a clear gray. They didn't stand the same, didn't act alike, share the same laugh or quirks—it wasn't plausible. And the way Jack had found the man was silly, like something out of a book or a dime novel.

Besides, Dave had always pictured Jack's dad as a horrible fellow who whipped puppies and drank only beer and was always drunk and ate small children for breakfast. _This _man seemed nicer. And shorter.

He watched as the two embraced. Jack's father had gone into some wild frenzy, hugging Jack so tight Dave could almost see his eyes bulging out of his sockets. Jack, on the other hand, was gently patting his "pop" on the shoulder, looking less than tearful. His face was blank of emotion, really, not happy or sad or angry. He simply stood there, not moving as his father squeezed the life out of him.

"Let me look at you," the other said finally, letting Jack go and pushing him backwards, spanning Jack's waist with his hands. "Why, you're as skinny as a beanpole, kid!"

"Yeah, well," said Jack, embarrassed. He caught Dave's eyes and rolled his own upwards to the heavens. "I—"

"Handsome, though," his dad noted thoughtfully. Dave had to admit this was true: Jack's skin was clear and he was strong and his hair was only half greasy today. "You must get lotsa goils."

"Sure I do," Jack didn't sound sure of himself. "Listen, Pop—"

"I can't believe I didn't notice you before," went on the older man. "I guess I've just been in the pen so long, I—"

"_Pop." _Jack shouted. His father stopped, surprised. "This isn't really a good _time. _I've got to get back, make a livin', ya know."

"And what _do _you do for a livin', son?" Mister Kelly asked politely, curious, but either Jack didn't hear or he ignored the question for he replied:

"How about we meet up at somewhere later?"

His father nodded. "Shamrock's pub, about six-ish?"

"Sure," said Jack. He grabbed Dave's arm, startling the Mouth, and led him down the stairs. Dave followed hesitantly, not liking the gleam in Jack's brown eyes.

"See ya at dinner!" Jack's pop called.

Jack didn't answer.

…

….

…..

**Mush**

…

….

…..

Mush on a bench outside the Distribution Office with a sort of causal patience, lying down, his arms behind his head. It was Blink's turn to collect their papers today for the afternoon edition, and Mush had time to relax. He lay there lazily, watching passerby and newsies that had already bought their papes cross the street. This was the life, he decided, the life he wanted: just to sit there, and watch people. He wished a newsie's daily routine was more like this all the time.

Maybe, if he saved enough money, he could…he could…

He heard footsteps pound across the street, now, running quickly on the cement. He glanced up, and was not surprised to see Blink there, carrying two stacks of papers—one for Mush, and one for himself.

Mush raised a hand to greet him, waving him over but not bothering to sit up. He waited patiently as Blink hurried to him, panting heavily. "Hey, Kid. Get our papes yet?"

"Yeah," said Blink. He stood over Mush, trembling slightly, and Mush sat up, then, sensing something was wrong.

"What's up?"

Blink wordlessly handed him a wrinkled-looking afternoon paper. His muscles were tense—he was agitated, worried. Mush was starting to get scared.

"What'm I lookin' for?" said Mush, ruffling the paper and flipping to the offending number. He scanned the page, trained eye looking for the headline that Blink was so nervous about. There was an article about beer production being cut, but _that _wasn't it, was it? Blink never got _that _drunk.

He flipped over the page again, going over the headlines, wondering. Blink's heavy breathing was starting to make him nervous. Mush's brown eyes flicked from side to side, glancing for the words. He couldn't find them, but that was not surprising, considering he had no idea what he was looking for.

"Blink…" Mush said quietly, looking up at his friend. He was shaking, shaking, shaking, and as he saw Mush looking at him Blink leaned forward and pointed at a small section in the back corner of the newspaper.

Mush looked at it. It said:

_Boy thought to be Suspect in Cruel Alley Killing _

_"Witness recounts young man running from the scene"_

Blink was trembling harder now as Mush looked back up, not bothering to read any further. "Blinky…did you…"

"I killed a guy last night, Mush," Blink said, before promptly bursting into tears.

…

….

…..

Wait.

What?

Mush couldn't believe it. He _couldn't. _This was Blink. _Blink—_his friend, his brother, his family. The guy he'd palled around with since they were just becoming newsies, the kid with the eyepatch who liked to yell really loud when it wasn't necessary, the person who had an overwhelming sense of right and wrong and claimed he wasn't prejudiced because he hated everyone equally.

Blink would never _hurt _anyone.

Would he?

Because Blink had a really bad temper and sometimes that got him into trouble…

"I did it," Blink muttered. His face was turning red and he shut his eyes tight to hide from Mush that he was crying. "It was me. Last night."

Last night?

Mush remembered last night.

He had checked into the dormitory after he had finished selling, collapsing onto his bunk as soon as he had gotten up the stairs. Mush hadn't bothered to wait for Blink because that night was Wednesday, and Wednesday was when Blink went drinking and Mush didn't drink. Normally he would stay downstairs and play craps or poker or marbles with the other boys, but it had been a long selling day and he was tired. He had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, snoring and dreaming about something that he could never remember when he woke up.

That had been around nine.

But Blink hadn't come in until later, when it was officially lights out and everyone was in their beds and sleeping. He had barged in, swinging the door behind him and slamming it shut. That night Mush's bunk had been next to the door, and so he had woken up with a start. He remembered that he had rubbed his eyes sleepily and climbed out of his bunk, walking over to Blink and poking him in the shoulder.

"So how drunk are ya tonight?" he remembered asking. Normally Blink spent Wednesday in alley because most of the time he couldn't even stand up straight when he was drunk. But today he was walking up the stairs and making it past Kloppman and staring at Mush calmly.

"I'm not drunk," Blink had replied, and had turned, then, to walk to a spare bunk. "Go back to sleep."

Mush had nodded—he _was _sleepy—but then he had picked out something interesting on Blink in the dark. His vest lining was wrong. "How come your shirt's inside out, Blink?"

"Huh?" Blink had spun around, and then looked at Mush, reading his face carefully. "Oh. Um. I…"

"Didja meet with a goil?" Mush asked. Blink's face flooded with relief, then, and he had burst into a wide smile, illuminating his entire face. The moonlight gave it a slightly sadistic edge, and Mush had shivered.

"Yeah, Mushy," Blink had grinned at him. The smile had a trace of hysteria in it. "I met a goil. We had a great time."

"Oh," said Mush. "Okay."

"Now go back to sleep."

Mush followed orders.

…

Mush looked back up at Blink, remembering. Blink's face was streaked with tears now, running down his face in trails. Snot was coming out of his nose and he kept wiping his face with his hand, trying to clear it away.

"The vest last night was inside out because I got the guy's blood all over it," Blink said, his voice surprising calm for someone who was crying that hard. "I threw it in a dumpster this mornin'."

"Oh," said Mush.

"I need a new one, now, that was the only one I had," Blink wiped his nose again, sounding calmer now, not as scared. He sat down on the bench next to Mush, his knees creaking heavily as he did so. "I'm gonna ask Kloppman to get me one later."

"Oh," said Mush.

He couldn't say anything else. Here Blink was, still crying over killing somebody, and he was going on and on about a damn _vest_.

"I hope it'll be blue to match my eyes," Blink went on. "Dave's got a real nice vest and I'd really like one that—"

"Blink, what're ya gonna do?" Mush cut in abruptly. Blink stared at him in surprise, his mouth forming an "o". Normally, Mush didn't interrupt him and let him rant, but today Blink was scaring him and he couldn't take the idle chatter. This was important. _Incredibly _important.

"I don't know," Blink admitted finally. "They're gonna catch me eventually."

Mush suddenly got a mental image in his mind of a jailer and a hangman and a scaffold with a rope made into a noose and trapdoor and Blink, his hands behind his back, walking slowly up the wooden stairs and a large crowd silently waiting for the hangman to fasten the rope around Blink's neck and pull the lever, letting his body dangle down and choke—

No. No, he mustn't think that.

"I'll help ya, Blink," exhaled Mush. "I'll hide ya if the bulls come lookin'. We can tell Jack and the others too, if you'd like."

Blink shook his head. "Nah. I don't want to get them involved."

_But what about me? _Mush wondered.

"—And anyway," Blink clapped a hand over Mush's shoulder. His eye(s?) were almost completely dry now—a little red, but mostly dry. "They wouldn't want to help a _killer."_

But that wasn't true. Jack and the other newsies wouldn't care what happened—Blink was one of their own and besides he probably only killed a drunk and felt bad about it. They would _want _to help hide him if the bulls came sniffing. Blink knew that.

Mush didn't understand why Blink wouldn't want to tell anyone.

Unless….

"I'se thinkin' we should make plans," Blink suggested. He was starting to sound like his own self now and Mush was glad. The other Blink was scary. "Like an escape route or somethin', ya know?"

Mush nodded. "Yeah."

"Y'wanna help?"

"Sure," said Mush.

Blink hugged him then, drifting his arm around Mush's shoulder. He squeezed him hard, muttering quietly into his ear.

"Gee, Mush, I'se scared. I'se real scared."

"I know," said Mush.

He was scared too.

…

…..

…….

Hmm. Well, that was fun.

Reviews are like crack-happy-awesome, dudes. Feed me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Jack.**

Jack stood self-consciously at the door of the Shamrock Pub; lips pressed together, hands hanging loosely by his sides. He didn't like going into these dingy, dirty little bars—it always seemed like the regular joes knew that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he was too young and should just leave the drinking to the men who knew it best.

Usually he was more than happy to not step foot in a bar like this. He only spent time in _these _places for special occasions—like territory business or meetings with the other leaders of the boroughs.

Or, apparently, family reunions.

He sucked in a deep breath and surveyed the room. It was cloudy with smoke, and only a few men were sitting in the joint. They sat there calmly, sipping their crude whiskey and rum and whatever else and watching Jack with knowing looks in their eyes. Jack didn't like it.

God, he hated bars.

(you can still go back)

A voice in the back of his head said. It sounded uncannily like Blink's—shrill and whiney.

(you can turn around and leave and they won't know the wiser because they don't know you're a newsie, Jack, you can turn around and leave and escape it and escape your past and run run run run…)

"No," Jack told the BlinkVoice. "I don't wanna run. I ran enough to last me a lifetime."

(but Jack) said the BlinkVoice. (but Jack…)

"_No," _Jack thought firmly. He was going to meet with his Pop and they were going to talk and catch up on old times. Dear Old Pop had been in the slammer for nearly five years, and he'd missed a lot. And Jack was grown up now; he could take care of himself.

It would be all right.

The door behind him opened with a cheerful jingle, then, and Jack turned around and was savagely assaulted by a small man again for the second time in a day. His midriff was squeezed so hard it felt like his guts had turned to ink.

"Hi, Pop," Jack mumbled. He _hated _being hugged by people several feet shorter than him.

"Heya, Jacky!" His father said cheerfully. He let Jack go, then, and turned back to the two men who had followed him in. "See, I told ya he'd come back, boys."

Jack froze.

(too late to run now) said the BlinkVoice. (too late.)

…

….

…..

Jack stood there silently, letting his eyes take in the other two men. He hadn't seen them since he'd been—what, twelve? Thirteen?—and they had all been con-men together, preying on the innocent and stealing their money. _These _guys, of course, his father included, had been the ones that would get people's attention, loud and proud, and _Jack_, then, would use the human emotions and get people to feel sorry for him since he was just a kid.

The Glory Days, his Pop had called it.

But then the Glory Days had ended and his father and his friends had gotten caught and sent to prison, to Sing-Sing, and Jack was left alone to fend for himself.

And one day he had gotten so hungry he had tried to steal an apple…

"You guys ain't changed a bit," Jack said out loud, then, letting himself smile and look friendly. He meant it too, of course, he knew what prison (though it had been a children's prison) did to a person, and these guys hadn't even gained one wrinkle from the whole ordeal.

There was Mickey, wearing his purple hat and vest, ridiculous gold chain dangling from the pocket, staring at him as haughtily as ever, his teeth yellow from the tobacco he chewed. There was Ed, too, large glasses covering his handsome face, and tall, taller than Jack, even, and rail thin. They both held white-ivory canes in their hands that had a bulldog's head on the end, a snarling fierce thing, and Jack remembered that he had been scared of it, long ago, in those days of con-men and gambling.

There were those two…

But who was missing?

"Where's Johnny?" Jack asked. He glanced at his father, the question in his eye, and his father shifted, looking up at Ed for the answer. Ed smiled sadly and patted Jack's shoulder.

"Johnny's dead, Jack," said Ed.

flash

_It's dark and they're in their hidey-hole, where the bulls can't find them and it's dark the others have gone out and it's only Jack and Johnny-retard and Jack is only ten and he can't see anything or anyone and he can hear rats and it's dark and he's scared and he can't see and_

_A candle flickers suddenly and Jack looks up and he sees Johnny's big grinning dumb face smiling down at him and holding the light in his palm_

"_You wanna see my cowboys Francis?" he asks, only it comes out more like fran-cees more than Francis because Johnny can't talk right. "I got them from the store and they're cork, see?"_

"_Yeah, I see." Jack nods. "That's neat."_

_Johnny holds them up to the light closer and Jack can see small figurines wearing cowboy hats and bandanas. "They's from Santa Fe, see?" he says in his slow, dumb, way._

"_Where's that?"_

"_That's the best place on the woild!" Johnny says, and then proceeds to explain all about cowboys and Indians and fights and guns and lassos and horses and how everyone is never hungry there and no one leaves little boys alone in the dark and …_

_Jack is transfixed._

flash

"Poor Johnny," Jack murmured. He absentmindedly moved his red bandana. "How'd he die?"

"Mur-dered," said Mickey in a singsong voice. "Retard-" -he twirled his finger around his ear to illustrate the point-- "had it comin' to him, too, him bein' so stupid and all--"

"—What we mean to say, Jacky," Jack's pop interrupted, seeing Jack's frown. He placed a hand on Jack's arm, leading him over to a long dusty table and sitting him down on a chair. "Is that it's all for the best, really, see, the poor dummy was dragging us down."

"Draggin' you down?" Jack asked hoarsely. He stared up at the three con artists, wishing to God that he hadn't come, that he had left and never came back. The BlinkVoice inside of him was smug. "How come?"

"We're goin' back to the business, son," Ed said, looking at Jack like he was nuts. "We're old, and we don't need no retard making us work harder. It was bad enough when _you _was a kid."

Sure, it was bad. Jack remembered that. He remembered the cold and the hunger and the despair and the hate and how miserable he had been, and the places he had been to where small boys shouldn't go and the things he had done that small boys shouldn't do…

Who had been dragging whom down?

"We gotta change our angle," continued Ed, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder, pulling out the "Let's-Be-Friends" card. "We ain't playin' sympathy no more; people don't feel any sorry for us. We gotta be rougher, force people to buy our stuff, see?"

"Yeah," said Jack. He flinched under Ed's grip. The nails were digging into his skin. "I see."

"Good!" Mickey clapped his hands happily, beaming down at Jack. "I knew he'd understand, Frankie, your kid's a natural."

"He is, ain't he?" said dear old pop, with a fond look at his son, standing by his chair with something like pride. Jack squirmed. He _hated _this, hated, hated, hated it. He felt like a little boy again, like a twelve-year-old kid being taught how to play the people, how _just exactly _to get folks' sympathy (and money). No wonder he had made such a wonderful newsie when he was older.

"What do ya want from me?" He asked, finally spitting the question out into the open, the question that he knew the answer to but wanted to hear aloud. "Why am I here?"

"We want ya back, of course," said his father.

Jack didn't waste a minute, then. "No," he said, matter-of-factly. "I'm not goin' back."

"You're _not?" _his pop, Mickey, and Ed all exclaimed at the same time. His Pop looked startled; Mickey and Ed looked livid.

"Why not?" asked Ed, sounding annoyed.

"I'se got my reasons," Jack said smoothly, regaining some of the dignity he had lost earlier when he had stepped through the door to the damn bar.

"What reasons?" prompted Ed.

"I…" Jack started, and then faltered. He didn't really have any reasons—he could make as much money as before—but to put it in frank terms… "I just don't wanna go, guys."

"But you was our greatest money-maker!" His pop protested.

Was that all he had cared about Jack? Jesus.

"No," Jack said quietly. He pulled himself to his feet and plodded to the door , putting a hand on the dirty glass. "I'se done with it now, Pop."

Jack opened the door and didn't look back.

**Blink**

He was in a cathedral, a big, beautiful, stained-glass type of cathedral, and Blink couldn't have been more uncomfortable.

He'd never liked being in churches, anyway. Blink remembered—it had been forever ago, he had been very small—he remembered being dragged there by his mother, forced to sit in the benches and listen (for hours, it seemed) to the Father drone on and on and on about something or another. It had been boring for him then, and it really hadn't gotten better ever since.

_Goddamn, _he hated churches.

It was a horrible thing to say, of course, but that was the truth. He hated them. The way they creaked, the way the statues seemed to glare at you behind your back, the way the church-goers sniffed and turned _their _backs whenever you walked through the door because you couldn't put two cents in the offering box.

"Goddamn you, Mush," Blink muttered, taking off his hat and scratching his head as he looked around St. Cecilia's. "It's all your fault."

Blink was right about _that._ He wasn't right about many things but he was right about that. After he had told Mush about his…er, problem, and humiliated himself by crying in public, they had gone to a park and made plans about escape, making silly, goofy plans that were sure to fail—and _then, _Mush had suggested he come to a church to confess his sins so God could forgive him.

Blink had laughed in Mush's face, then. "Why confess?" He had asked spitefully. "God ain't never gonna forgive a street rat like me or you for _whatever _we've done. I'm goin' to hell, Mush, and so are you, and there ain't nothin' we can do about it."

Mush's expression had fallen, then, and he had looked like he was about to cry. He held onto religion and truly, truly, _truly, _believed that there was a better place waiting for him on the other side.

Sure, Blink was a murderer, but _jeez, _Mush's face could make a Delancy cry. Looking at those watery eyes, Blink felt ashamed, and so he had agreed to come to this place, just so he could make Mush feel better.

And lo, here he was. Waiting in some goddamn church by the confession box for the priest to let him in.

"I _hate _this," Blink said to himself. He was the only one in the place, apparently, and the wooden walls gave off an eerie feeling. It seemed like the eyes of God were watching him, almost, like they were staring into him and saying: "I know what you did, Blink, I know what you did, and you're going to hell for it, yes you are, you and your friends, and there isn't anything you can do about it, boy—"

"Next!" came the sudden, careful cry from the other confession box, and Blink jumped. One of the doors opened, and a woman emerged from it, carefully rearranging her feathered hat. She looked rather disturbed, and her face only grew stormier as she caught sight of Blink.

"It's _your _turn now," she said, her nose in the air.

Blink rolled his eye, grabbing the open confession door and crawling inside.

Some people. Jeez.

…

…_._

…_.._

The confession was dark, tight, and smelling, reeking of sweat and tears and other things more unpleasant. Blink was cramped inside, his body pressed against the wooden bench just so—he couldn't fit in any other way.

"Hello?" He called loudly, face pressed against the mahogany wood. "Is anyone—"

"Yeah," the muffled voice of the priest replied. Blink squinted through the black-wire mesh of an opening and could just make out a darkened shape on the other side. "Begin."

"Uh…" said Blink. His mind was working furiously. He didn't know where to start. The guilt and the hurt suddenly blossomed through his chest again—the feelings he had tried very hard to keep down—and he choked. The reality of what he had done was looming closer and closer. "I…I killed a man last night, fadda."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other side. " And?" said the priest, sounding anxious.

"I was…" Blink bowed his head. He wanted to sugar-coat it, make it sound better than it really was, but God would find out anyway, wouldn't He? "I was drunk last night, see. I normally don't get that drunk, fadda, see, but I'se a newsie, and I'd made a lot of money that day, and the beer was so good that I—"

"You're ramblin'," The priest cut him off. "Make this as short as possible, willya? You was drunk, and..."

"Right, right," sighed Blink. "Well, anyway, I was drunk, and at this bar, and all of a sudden this guy comes up to me and he goes…he goes…

"'Hey kid, wanna make four bucks?'

"And I go: 'Yeah, sure,' I mean, I'se drunk, but when's a guy gonna make four bucks if he's a newsie? Never. It's a golden opportunity right there, I betcha. So I says yes, then, and then the guy, he grins, and then he presses this…this knife into my hand.

I looked at him and went: 'You want me to…?' And he nods and smiles again and says: 'Why not? No one's gonna know, you're makin' good money, and plenty of kids made their start bein' street sparrows like that—knockin' people off. Ever heard of Spot Conlon?'

"Of course, I agreed, then. I dunno if I really thought I was gonna kill someone or what, but _I agreed, _fadda. I followed him outta that damn—sorry—bar, and he lead me to this alley in the back, and the knife's still in my hand, and we waited for whoever he wanted me to…to kill…and we—"

Blink broke off his story, then. He swallowed heavily, his adam's apple feeling like a dead weight in his throat. Fuck, he felt so _guilty _about this. Jack had always talked about acting better than what they were—being better than the street rats people assumed they were—and the newsies had tried to live up to that. They had tried to be civil to people and to keep themselves clean and good-smelling as best they could and tried to learn so people would believe they were actually human, and _Blink _had gone and _killed _someone. An innocent person, no less. Someone who hadn't done him any harm. Someone who was…

"And we waited," Blink continued, finding the strength to go on, finally. He _had _to get this out now, once he had started. "And then we hears footsteps, and these two guys come into the alley, and one of 'em's real tall and skinny and wearin' purple and holdin' the other guy. The other guy's funny in the head, you can tell as soon as you see him—his face is all smushed weird, y'know—and he's goin':

"'What're we doin' here?'

"And the other guy's like, 'We'se takin' ya to meet some friends, see, Johnny?' and he looks at us and gives us thumbs up, and I'se still holdin' the knife, see, and the other guy who lead me up there gave me a _look_, and shoves me up there to them, and I'm so drunk I can barely think, and the other guy drops away so it's just me and the retarded guy, and I needed the money and I…and I…"

Blin couldn't go on. He couldn't. He knew the rest of the story, and he was pretty sure God did too, anyway. He had killed that poor guy for four bucks last night and if he wasn't before, he was sure going to hell now.

He was starting to fucking cry now too. God_damn._

Blink hit the wood with his fist, striking out angrily and hitting the first thing he could feel. It wasn't _fair. _

"_I killed him!" _He yelled suddenly, and he saw the priest's figure flinch, and then lean up against the mesh-wire opening. "I…oh…God, Fadda, what'm I gonna do?"

"I dunno," the priest said carefully. Blink wondered if many priests had Brooklyn accents. "Pray."

"What's_ that_ gonna do for me?" Blink asked, suddenly weary. "How's that gonna help?"

"Geez, Blink, I don't know!" The priest snapped. "Ya _killed _a guy!"

_Waitaminute._

Blink's heart felt like it stopped. He hadn't told the priest his _name—_Mush had said that wasn't necessary to confess. The guy must've…

He must've known it on his own.

But that meant…that meant…

(that guy had a Brooklyn accent, didn't he?)

"Shit!" Blink cursed. The figure on the other side withdrew, as if afraid. "_Race?"_

There was a long pause.

"Heya, Kid," said the scratchy voice of the Italian gambler. "Come here often?"

…

….

…..

Blink didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but above all he _knew _he shouldn't be surprised. He _knew _Race had done this before--this sneaking into confessional booths and listening in, pretending to be a priest so he could hear other people's sins and blessing people. Racetrack had actually confided in Blink, knowing he didn't go to church like Mush—"It's awful neat, listenin' to all that stuff people do. A regular dime-store novel, only for free and _real._"

And Blink had nodded and laughed.

That had been before he had murdered a guy, though.

"Race, you can't tell," Blink whispered through the mesh-wire opening. "No one can know, y'hear?"

"…ya killed someone," Race replied flatly.

"So does that mean you're gonna tell?"

"Dunno what I'm gonna do," said Race quietly. "Jacky said…"

"_I know what Jack said!" _Blink's temper had started to flare and he stamped his foot on the wood. Jack had said killers weren't welcome in the Lodging House when he had been appointed leader. He had told them to turn in any murderers that had happened to show up.

_And now Blink was one of them._

"I'll think about it," was Race's answer. Blink heard the door of his booth swing open and slam shut and faint footfalls getting close to him.

"_You can't tell!" _Blink yelled. He hadn't moved from his spot inside the confessional. He was still in shock. "Race!"

"What're ya gonna do, Blink?" Race shot back. Blink thought that if he could see him, the gambler's face would probably be a delightful shade of purple. "Kill me too?"

…

….

…..

…_**wow, that was a heckuva lot shorter than I thought it'd be. And a lot worse. I'm not very much impressed with my writing on this chapter...**_

_**Meh. Oh, well.**_

_**I also would like to apologize for Blinky-dear's swearing; but he seems like the type of person to curse like a sailor. Or maybe it's just because I like Blood Drips too much…o.0**_

_**Thank you for the reviews! Huggles to all!**_

_**Me**_


	3. Chapter 3

Mush had never known fear like this.

He had been afraid before, of course, he didn't consider himself brave. When he had been younger and his parents had died and he had been carted off to the orphanage he had been afraid of _everything—_of police and the dark and sickness and knives and The Refuge and spiders_. _

Yes, he had known fear.

But he had never known _this _sort of fear.

It was already starting to eat away at his insides, leaving him hopeless and exhausted and feeling worse off than he was. He wasn't afraid for himself, either—that he could have dealt with, that he could have controlled—he was afraid for _Blink_.

Sooner or later Blink was going to be pinned for that murder and he would be arrested and Mush didn't know what he was going to do about it. If the Justice System had their way, Blink would be killed, hung from the neck like a common murderer.

Which he _was._

But he was also Mush's best friend and he couldn't just let him get caught… but Blink had killed a man. …and God, he was so _confused. _

And afraid. Always afraid.

"What'm I gonna do?" Mush whispered to himself. He wiped his sweating forehead and frowned at his hand. "What'm I gonna do?"

He was walking alone to the distribution office, his head down, his mouth lacking its usual grin. The other newsies had already left him behind, sensing he didn't want to talk, and now he was alone, with no other street kid in sight, walking to get papes he didn't really need or want. His footsteps slow and heavy, Mush felt like he was walking through a fog. He decided that _this _was how men felt when they were on their way to their death—scared and sluggish.

"Race knows," A familiar voice said behind him, and Mush spun around. Sure enough, Blink was there, looking scared and sad and angry all at the same time, his face a roadmap of emotions. "About what…what I did. He knows about the murder, Mush."

Mush scanned Blink's face carefully. It was tight and pinched and had an ugly expression and Mush was sure he was accusing him of something.

"What are ya sayin'?" Mush asked slowly. Déjà vu seemed to be punching him in the gut—this was reminding him painfully of the day before.

Blink took a step closer to Mush. "I went to confession like ya told me to," He said. "And _guess who was pretendin' to be priest?_"

Mush's eyes widened. "Kid, I—"

"You knew he was gonna be there," Blink's voice had started to rise, and now Mush was beginning to feel scared for _himself_. Kid Blink's temper was legendary in the Lodging House and while he was usually friendly, no one liked to make him angry. He was unpredictable when he was steamed. "Ya told 'im to come and listen so you could find out for yourself."

Mush backed up. He was standing on the sidewalk of an unknown street with no one friendly around to help him and he was starting to feel like a mouse caught in a cat's trap. If Blink wanted to soak him, he had a very good chance of getting away with it.

"I didn't tell 'im, Blink," Mush said calmly, trying to soothe the angry boy's nerves. A thought occurred to him. "Maybe God wanted Race to hear you. Maybe Race can help us or somethin—"

"Race's gonna tell Jack, he won't _help!" _Blink howled. An old lady passing by on her way to market looked alarmed and crossed the street. "And then Jack'll kick me out and I won't even be able to work the papes again, Mush, and I won't be able to see you and the other guys again and I'll probably have to live somewhere else, and…and…"

"Kid, _calm down!" _Mush yelled back. Blink was starting to lose it and if this continued, they wouldn't need Race to spill the beans—Blink would confess on this street corner here and now. "Jack wouldn't kick you out, we're _newsies, _we support each other, we make sure we're okay, and Jack's known you since forever, if you tell him you'll be _safe_!"

"Jack has a rule about murderers, remember? No killer's allowed to live under _his _roof and work as a newsie—even if it's me, Mush! I'll get caught as quick as anythin' and stuck in the Refuge or maybe even grown-up jail! Christ! Use your brain!"

"I can't have much of a brain if I'm hangin' around a killer, can I?" countered Mush, the words springing to life before he could stop them. He clapped his hands over his mouth and waited for the explosion, to get the soaking of a lifetime.

It didn't come.

Blink merely looked down and sighed, defeated, the anger quickly deflating out him. "Guess not."

"I didn't tell Race to go listen to ya," Mush said gently. "I know what ya did—you told me last night, remember?"

"Yeah," Blink sighed again. The busy street seemed to get louder and louder and louder as the two stood there. "So you know that the guy—"

"-was messed up, yeah," Mush finished. He paused and then started to scrape the top of his boot on the ground, feeling awkward. He didn't usually express his feelings like this and neither did Blink. "But he wasn't my best friend."

Blink was silenced for a second.

Then he reached out and tousled Mush's curly hair. "If that wasn't the queerest thing you've ever said, I'se a scab. Jeez, Mush."

"Sorry," Mush swatted away Blink's hand, feeling better as a smile finally cracked across his friend's face.

Blink's grin grew wider. He opened his mouth to say something…before closing it abruptly, instantly turning into a snarl. His good humor was gone as he pointed over Mush's shoulder and he growled slightly as he said: "Well, Mush, if it ain't our favorite pair a' chumps themselves!"

"Huh?" said Mush, confused. He didn't have a favorite pair of chumps. "What're ya—"

He cut off his sentence quickly as he felt a sweaty arm move across his back and drape across his shoulders. It massaged his back for a moment, and then slipped off and pushed him over, letting Mush stumble towards Blink, holding out his hands for balance.

"Hear about yesterday's murder, boys?" asked Oscar Delancy, grinning as wide as a crocodile.

…

….

…..

Mush swung his arms back into place and spun around, his eyes instantly glancing towards Blink. Blink had started to breathe harder now, in ragged, heavy breaths, and Mush could almost hear his heart beating faster and faster.

Or maybe that was his own heart. Mush wasn't sure.

"Yeah, we heard about the murder." Mush said slowly, taking charge, letting Blink get his act together. "What about it?"

Oscar smirked. He leaned up against up a lamppost, taking off his hat and running the fabric around in his hands. Morris, his brother, stood up straight and tall next to him, his arms crossed, daring the two newsies to face him.

Mush hadn't seen the Delancys' since the strike, and he had to admit whatever job they had won afterwards was a good one. Their clothes were fine, their shoes were polished, and they looked like they went to bed every night with full bellies. Mush figured that they didn't miss their old job at the _World _one bit.

So what was this? Some kind of strike reunion?

Oscar cleared his throat, jerking Mush out of his thoughts. "Well, " he said brightly. "I heard that guy who died was a retard. An idiot."

"So?"

"So," The scabber's eyes gleamed. "I'd watch out if I was you, Mushy. The killer might—" --he waved his hand in the air—"_kill again_."

Oh. Okay. Mush breathed a sigh of relief inside. Oscar was just looking for a fight, someone to insult. This wasn't that bad—all they had to do was leave.

Mush grabbed Blink's arm, and Blink turned him around, starting to march off. His breathing had started to get better, now that he knew that the Delancys didn't know the exact details about the murder. Mush was glad. He had been worried for a few seconds that Blink was going to explode with nerves.

But Oscar wasn't finished.

He placed his hat back on his head and cupped his hands around his mouth, calling as the two newsies began to leave. "What about that killer guy, huh?" He said loudly. "Word on the streets was that he was a retard too. A newsie, I mean."

Mush stopped. So did Blink.

"They say," said Oscar. "That the police found a newspaper on the ground next to the body. That it was smudged but not wrinkled, like someone had been handling it all day. So they think a newsie did it."

Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no

"So, I was wondering…do you _newsies _know the killer?"

Mush's palms had gone sweaty; Blink stared straight ahead at the street, not turning around to face the Delancy brothers. Mush was afraid Oscar might be able to tell by their faces exactly what was up.

"No newsie would ever kill someone," Blink said finally, his back to Oscar. His voice was hoarse.

'I dunno," Morris spoke up for the first time. _His _voice was low and gravely. "_Cowboy _might be—"

"Jack didn't do it!" Mush exclaimed, glancing back and catching Oscar's eye.

"And how are you sure?" Oscar fired back. "Unless you know the guy who did it?"

They were onto something and if Mush talked to them any further someone would get hurt. On his right, Blink was already starting to pull away again, trying to get as far away from the brothers as possible.

"Was it you, eyepatch boy?" asked Oscar. He pulled away from the lamppost and quickly moved in front of Blink and Mush, holding out his hand and stopping them from going any further. His small eyes quickly looked at theirs, reading their guilty faces.

"It wasn't him,' Mush said quickly. Blink's eye had widened and he looked like he was about to bolt away, to leave a fight he couldn't avoid. "It was probably some drunk."

"Some drunk?" Oscar quirked his eyebrow.

Mush shifted nervously, feeling the need to explain himself, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was warning him to stop. "Yeah. I mean, some guy probably got drunk and didn't know what he was doin' and went and did it for money or somethin' and knifed the other guy. He probably…he probably feels really bad about it now."

Oscar froze.

"_That _wasn't in the papes," He whispered. "How do you know so much, Mushy?"

"He's guessin'," Blink shoved Oscar out of the way, then, sneering at the Delancy. He pushed by him, Mush following behind. "Leave us alone."

"It was Mush, wasn't it?" Morris said calmly, suddenly right behind his brother and putting up his fist, ready for a fight. Mush had always thought that he was the scariest of the Delancy clan—completely unpredictable. "You did it."

"It wasn't me," said Mush, voice going up an octave higher. His words sounded untrue, even to himself. "I didn't kill no one."

"Gutter rats are always liars," Morris replied. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out brass knuckles. "They're always thieves and liars and losers who can't get a job—"

"And," his brother added, "They're killers."

"Like you," said Morris.

"But I didn't do it!" Now scared, Mush grabbed Blink's arm again. "Blink, let's get outta here, okay?"

"You guys ain't going no where," Oscar said. He and Morris started to close in, circling around the newsies like cats about to pounce. "I hear there's a big reward out for the guy who did it."

"But—"

Mush's eyes had started fill with frustrated tears. He forced down the swelling in his throat and balled his hands into fists, starting to get ready for a fight. Maybe if Blink and him could fight the brothers off they could make a run for it and get away. Oscar wouldn't tell the police about them— he was a felon, and probably just teasing them to get a reaction. If the newsies fought the two off, they would run away like puppies, their tails between their legs, and leave Mush and Blink alone. All Mush had to do was fight.

Blink had other ideas, punching Oscar quickly in the gut and pushing him over. As Oscar wheezed and his brother started to move in, Blink ran, yelling at Mush, ordering him to follow his example and _get the hell out of there. _

Mush did.

…

….

…..

Cowboy

…

….

…..

Ed and Mickey were refusing to give up on Jack.

He had told them no, no, no, _no, _if he had told them once he had told them a thousand times, but they weren't relenting. They had caught him selling with David in the afternoon, asking for a paper and then grabbing Jack's arm and wanting another "talk" with him. Jack had followed, of course—they knew he was a newsie now, and that meant they knew vaguely where he lived—and they had dragged him into an alley somewhere, intent on getting him back in the business.

The two looked comfortable with this one, as if they had been in there several times before. Ed was standing straight up, not slouching at all and staring at Jack through his dirty glasses; Mickey was lying down on the ground on a few cardboard boxes, picking at his thumbs. Their canes were beside him, resting comfortably on a used hatbox.

"I ain't goin' back, guys," Jack insisted again. "I told you and my Pop once and I ain't tellin' ya again. I like bein' a newsie and you can't make me go wherever you want anymore. I ain't twelve and scared of my own shadow."

"People don't change, Jacky-boy," Ed said patiently. "Bet we could getcha to crack if we found the right holes."

Jack shook his head. He drew his cigarette to his mouth and looked out to the entranceway of the alley. David and Les were there, waiting for Jack to finish his conference with his old friends. Jack could just make out little Les, marching back and forth with his wooden sword on his shoulder, pretending to be a British Royal Guard.

They seemed awfully far away.

"I mean, you'se a newsie, right?" Ed asked. Jack nodded. "What would you do if we, say, soaked a few of your friends, huh?"

Jack blew out his smoke out of his nose, not replying. It had been different when Pulitzer had threatened Jack with his newsies. Pulitzer was a virtual giant, he had thousands and thousands of goons to do whatever he told them, he could have the newsies _killed_ if he wanted to. But Ed and Mickey were just two people and the newsies weren't _babies _like they seemed to think they were, they could soak Mickey and Ed (and Jack's pop) quick as anything.

"I'd have them soak ya back," Jack said finally. "Give it up, Eddie. I ain't goin'."

He pulled the smoke out of his mouth and ground it underneath his foot, intending on walking right out of there and not look back. As he turned to leave, Ed grabbed his arm and held it so hard Jack could almost see it turning blue.

"But _why?" _Ed wheedled in a small child's voice, high pitched and creepy. "You could make _ever _so much more money with _us_ than with your _friends." _

"Because," Jack answered through clenched teeth. "I can _trust _them."

"Are ya sure?" asked Mickey cheerfully. "Street rats like you have dirty little secrets."

Jack pried Ed's hand off his arm. "What?"

"You never know," Mickey said, ignoring Ed's headshakes and warning glares. "Some of your guys might be murderers. Maybe even—" He winked at Jack. "—Killers of poor retards in alleys like this one…"

Mickey was just trying to rile Jack up, of course. None of Jack's newsies would ever kill anybody.

Except Skittery. Skittery might.

…no, not even Skittery! What was Jack _thinking? _

Then Mickey added salt to the wound. "Don't you think guys with eyepatches look like criminals?"

Okay. This was getting ridiculous. Jack's temper was on the rise now, and Mickey needed to _shut up _or he was going to get the punching of a lifetime and lose a few of those ugly teeth.

"Still," The man continued thoughtfully, hoisting himself off the ground and sitting up. Mickey's eyes had a malicious glare to them, and Jack thought they were even worse than Snyder's. "Criminals _are _pretty good lookin', ain't they, Jack?"

"Shut up," Jack growled.

Mickey was queer and he reveled in it, knowing it bothered Jack. When he had been younger, Mickey had taunted him with it, threatening him with things…with things that weren't right, weren't natural, were an abomination. Jack had always been uncomfortable with it and Mickey liked to be in control of everything and that made for a gruesome combination.

"Aw, why do you hate me so much? The retard liked to join in, you know he did, he _liked _it, and he—"

"_Shut up!" _God, he couldn't even say anything remotely witty, Jack was so shaken. He couldn't move. Mickey and Ed sure knew how to a pierce a person in the right place, didn't they?

"Leave him alone, Mickey," Ed spoke up now, but he was smiling because Jack was starting to look like he had when he was younger: scared and unsure. "The only queer back then was you and you know it. Johnny was just Jack's _special _friend, y'know!"

"Ah. Of course. I'd forgotten."

And now they were staring at Jack like they were lions and he was prey and he felt strange and nervous and not like "Cowboy" at all. He felt more like a little boy who wanted to curl up in a ball and never come out again.

_Goddamnit._

"You remember—" Ed began, but he was cut off by David—_David!—_running into the alley with a frantic look on his face. He wasn't breathing heavily—he hadn't been running—but his bright blue eyes were alarmed and Jack knew immediately something was very wrong.

Snipeshooter—Wait, Snipeshooter? Where'd he come from?—was right behind him. _His _face was red, and he was huffing and puffing as if he'd ran a marathon. He was holding a stack of papers under one arm and his hat under the other and he looked like he was about to wet his pants in excitement.

Les was right behind _him,_ his short legs working to keep up with the older boys. He nearly skidded into Snipes, who impatiently pushed him back as he stared at Jack with wide brown eyes.

"Whaddaya want?" Ed asked rudely. "_We're _talking to Jack, you kids are gonna hafta-"

"Shut _up, _Ed!" yelled Jack for the third time, pushing past him and bounding forward to his friends. He had lost his cool now; his poker face was completely gone. He wasn't in control of himself anymore and as Dave's eyes passed over his face Jack was sure he'd figured out everything already. "What's—"

"Mush is gettin' arrested!" Snipes interrupted excitedly.

"Mush?" Snipe was lying. Mush never got in trouble. And what did he mean, getting? "You better not be bluffin', Snipes."

"I ain't!" Snipeshooter protested. He sped around and frantically motioned for Jack to follow. "Come _on!" _

…

…_._

…_.._

Jack followed Snipes out of the alley easily, keeping up with him without effort. Beside him, David was jogging quietly, pulling his little brother as fast as he could. This wasn't normal for David—usually he talked, talked, talked in times of trouble and Jack wondered what his problem was.

"I seen him on the other block," Snipeshooter panted, and he rushed forward, practically sprinting now. As they rounded the corner the younger boy started jumping up and down. "There! There! Y'see 'em, Cowboy?"

Jack did. Mush was on the other end of the block, his fists up in a poor imitation of a boxer's staunch. A magnificent black eye was starting to bloom on the right side of his face and his expression was fierce, like a cornered animal. Two policemen, one on horseback, were circling around him, blocking his way. They were smiling; they knew Mush was an easy target, they knew he wouldn't try to hurt them _too _bad. Only an overturned fruit vendor's cart protected Mush from the men and bruised apples were scattered throughout the street. Jack noticed a few calm-looking passerby picking them up and stuffing them in their pockets.

They ran towards the scene wordlessly as fast as they could. A newsie never abandoned another in times of trouble and this was definitely one of those times. The bulls were probably just picking on Mush for stealing an orange or something.

As they neared Mush Jack saw his large brown eyes widen in surprise. He let down his arms and flopped them at his sides. "Jack!"

The policeman on the ground heard his exclamation and turned around, his brown mustache flowing in the breeze, and with a sinking feeling Jack realized it was Sergeant McSwain, Snyder's pal.

"Leave us alone, boys, or we'll have you arrested for tampering with us," McSwain ordered as they came to a complete stop near the police horse. "This boy is dangerous."

"_Mush?" _said Jack. "Mush ain't dangerous!"

"He's a _menace,"_ The one on horseback answered. He looked younger, a lot friendlier than McSwain, and Jack didn't recognize him—probably a new recruit. He didn't seem to realize he was talking to a bunch of street kids. "We've got reason to believe he's a murderer. Killed that poor retard that they found in that alley back there for a few bucks."

Jack's head started to swim. Mush…Mush killed Johnny? Mush wouldn't do that, Mush was nice, Mush was the voice of reason. Mush was a great guy and he would never kill a "poor retard in an alley for a few bucks". That wasn't right. The policemen were just trying to pin something on a newsie in revenge for the strike.

Yeah. That's all it was. Nothing more, nothing less. A simple revenge plan.

The two policemen circled Mush again and again, waiting to make their move. They seemed to be taking their dear, sweet time, and weren't in a rush at all. Mush was starting to panic and he stood stock still now, his haughty façade gone. He was scared.

"Hey, where's Blink?" Les asked, but Jack didn't answer or even show signs that he had heard the little boy. His mind was too busy whirring and clanking and buzzing, thinking of a way to get Mush the hell out of there and onto safer territory.

"Dave," he whispered finally, poking the other boy in the shoulder and bending close to his ear. "I'm gonna get Mush outta here."

"What?" Dave mumbled back. "Jack, what're—"

But Jack had already started to move, lowering his head and running as fast as he could to McSwain. Like a bull, he charged, feeling his head hit the policeman's soft stomach and bouncing back, knocking the older man to the ground. Jack watched him fall and then moved quickly, pouncing on his belly and holding him down.

"Run, Mush!" He yelled loudly, as McSwain struggled underneath him. "Get outta here!"

The guy on horseback wasn't very fast and Jack had thought he didn't know much about the animal yet. He was right—the man twisted the reins around but the plain brown horse didn't move, content to bend down and eat fallen apples, giving Mush a good space to take a flying leap over the cart and make a break for it. He landed on his feet and started to run as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder to yell at the Cowboy. "C'mon, Jack!"

Jack smiled tightly and bounced up, barely giving McSwain time to blink before he was out of his reach, bounding quickly over to David and Les and Snipes, all who were looking rather shell-shocked. He grabbed David's jacket and Les's hand and took off, catching up with Mush as the bulls behind struggled to get up and chase after them.

"Thanks, Cowboy," Mush panted as they ran. His curls bounced lightly in the breeze. "I didn't know what I was gonna do—"

They rounded the corner, then, pushing through passerby and others to get through. Les kept looking behind them, checking to see if they were being followed.

They were.

"Guys, they're comin'!" He warned, and the newsies sped up their pace, weaving around the crowds. The corner to the street was coming up and Jack knew that if they made it they would be home free and he would find out what this was all about.

We're gonna make it we're gonna make it we're gonna make it we're gonna—

But then Mush, who was in front, completely stopped.

They weren't going to make it. He had stopped because there was a gun pointed directly at his chest, and the finger connected to the trigger looked like it was ready to pull at any time.

The man behind the gun was Oscar Delancy.

Jack was surprised.

Mush was not.

…

….

……

"You," Jack heard Mush breathe. Oscar's hand didn't shift position. "What're—"

"What're you doing carrying a gun like that, Oscar?" David broke in. His blue eyes were fiery and he was calm as he strode up to the scabber, looking ready to throw himself in front of the weapon. "I didn't think—"

"I'm a refuge guard now," interrupted Oscar smoothly. "So's Morris. We're supposed to carry these around. Especially when we're arresting kids for murder."

Jack moved forward. Oscar wasn't going to shoot; he was a wimp. Jack could easily overtake him and throw him and that damn gun to the ground.

The gun's shadow moved from Mush to Jack. "Don't _think_ about it, Cowboy."

Or not.

By this time the two policeman had caught up with them. The horse had been abandoned and Jack was also satisfied to see that McSwain's cheek was bleeding rather heavily. He glared at Jack as he strode over, taking Mush by the hand and slipping it into cuffs. "Not to be crude, but you're in deep shit, kid."

Oscar didn't lower his gun from Jack. "Are we taking these guys in, too?"

"No," the one without the horse said. "We've arrested enough of 'em."

The scabber deflated slightly, looking disappointed. The gun went down and David instantly moved around to grab Les and hold him tightly by the shoulder. Snipeshooter simply stood there, facial expressions not changing one bit. He had learned to keep his cool around cops for a long time, and even though Oscar was one now—Snipes had always been wary of Oscar—that didn't change a thing.

And Jack?

Jack didn't know what he looked like. He probably looked shocked, upset, nervous. He was usually cocky around people like this but Mickey and Ed had shattered him. They had been right. Jack didn't know as much about his newsies as he thought he did.

"Do you have any proof?" Jack asked desperately, as McSwain started to lead Mush away. Mush wasn't struggling anymore. He seemed to have accepted his fate. "How do know he did it?"

"Because I told on him," said Oscar, turning around and following Mush and McSwain like a dog. "And Refuge Guards _never _lie, remember?"

Mush looked back at his friends and smiled, a slow, sad one, and Jack felt more pathetic than ever. What was going to happen to him at the Refuge? What happened to "murderers" like him there anyway?

"We'll break Mush out of there!" Jack called.

Oscar snickered at Jack's yell. "Don't bet your life on it, kid." He said.

...

14 pages, baby.

Don't forget to review!


	4. Chapter 4

He had left Mush there to get arrested.

It was true. There wasn't any use disguising the fact—He couldn't pretty it up or make it sound better like he could with the newspaper headlines. Blink had literally left Mush there to get sent to the Refuge.

If he wanted to excuse himself out of the situation, Blink _could _have said that he didn't realize what had happened until he heard the whistle. He _could _have explained that he turned around after hearing the shrill cry and panicked and took off before he realized that Mush wasn't behind him.

He _could _have said that.

But it would be his fault anyway.

Blink had run far away, so far that when he had stopped he didn't know where he was. Ending up on a strange corner on a strange street listening to a strange guy trying to sell Miracle Tonic, he didn't know what to do. Should he go back and find Jack and tell him and confess so that they could break Mush out? Or should he lie off and leave and forget about it?

If he confessed, if he told Jack the whole story, then Blink would surely be kicked out of the newsies, humiliated and alone. But Mush would be all right and safe.

If Blink stayed quiet, he'd be free.

Mush wouldn't, though.

Mush would rot in the Refuge forever and ever because even though Jack liked Mush he wouldn't let a "killer" loose.

Of course _Race_ wanted Blink to confess.

But _Blink _didn't want Blink to confess.

God!

"…and won't ya buy this elixir, huh, ladies and gents and boys and girls, friends and neighbors and family and strangers, folks and…"

Blink felt wobbly now. He had run for a good long while, and now that guy's voice was starting to weave in and out of his hearing. There was a dull roaring in his ears and a pit falling in the bottom of his stomach. It was guilt, pure and simple.

He _couldn't _keep quiet, damn it. He _couldn't _leave Mush there.

… If Race wouldn't kill him, his conscience would…

Okay. That was it. Blink made up his mind.

He was going to tell.

The boy took a deep breath, calmed himself, steadied his nerves.

Then he turned on his heel and ran back the way he came.

…

….

……

He ran back to the scene of the crime, to the fruit stand around the corner. It looked the same as it had before, of course, though if Blink looked closely he could see that there wasn't as much fruit on the cart and it looked scuffled, as if it had been pushed over on the ground. Blink didn't know if it had—he'd gotten away before anything had happened.

Mush wasn't there, of course. Blink had _known_ Mush wasn't going to be in the same spot where he had left him. But it still left a bitter taste in his mouth when he realized that _he, _himself, had been the cause for his best friend going to jail.

Then again, he thought hopefully, he didn't really _see _Mush taken away Maybe he had gotten away like Blink. Maybe the policemen were slow or something. Mush wasn't _that _stupid, surely he could come up with an escape route, right?

"Blink!" Someone yelled loudly, and he turned, nervously. Jack—oh, _no---_ was there, with Dave, Les, and Snipeshooter, and Blink suddenly felt his stomach flip-flop in all sorts of directions.

"Jack? What're ya doin' here?" Blink faked surprise as the Cowboy walked towards him, his expression unreadable. "Jack, what's wrong, huh?"

He backed up slightly, feeling scared. His guilt was getting bigger and bigger as he noticed Jack's accusing stare. The other boys, David and Les and Snipeshooter, stood back. Les looked confused, and Snipeshooter looked intrigued, but David's eyes were large and attentive looking. He didn't move a muscle and Blink knew that that meant he was taking in the whole situation.

Jack moved towards Blink. "Ain't ya Mushee's sellin' partner?"

"Yeah, but we split up today." Blink answered, letting his eye get wide and frightened. He was lying, he _was_, but he couldn't stop. "Why? What's happened to him?"

"They dragged him off 'cuz he killed someone the other night," interrupted Les.

Blink froze.

No he didn't do it it was me I'm guilty I should be in jail now it's my fault my fault

"No, 'cause they _said _he killed someone," Jack called back, looking over his shoulder and glaring at the younger kid. He turned back to Blink." Mush couldn't have killed nobody."

"Nah," said Blink. He looked down, not meeting Jack's eye. "He couldn't of."

"Especially not a retard like that guy."

"Yeah," said Blink, still not looking up.

"You know something. Don't you, Blink," Dave stated quietly. It wasn't a question. "You know what happened."

Kid stared at the grimy ground, his heart pounding in his ears. This was it. David wasn't stupid; David knew something was up. If he lied and said nothing was wrong Dave was going to tell Jack and Jack would guess instantly what had happened. But if he said that they got the wrong person…then…then…

Jack was staring at Blink intently now and he felt insanely small. "Um..."

Les's voce stood out. "Did Mush kill anyone?" Sometimes kids could speak the words older people couldn't and this was one of those times. Les didn't hold back and he spoke what was on his mind without any hesitation at all. The question that had been holding them all down was out in the open.

It was now or never.

'I…" Blink stuttered. "Well…he…I...mean..."

"He killed Johnny?" Jack asked. His long hair was sticking to his face and he looked somewhat demented as he stared down at Blink. "_Mush_? Really? How did you find out?"

"I didn't…I mean …five bucks in an alley…" whispered Blink. His thoughts were all scrambled together. "A couple of guys…wanted…."

And now Dave and Les and Snipeshooter were up close to Blink, pressing in. "Wanted what?" Dave thought aloud.

Suddenly Blink was aware of everything, aware of everyone, aware that he was pinning Mush to the crime, aware that he was lying, aware that Jack was starting to get angry. Blink noticed it all and he knew he had to get out of there before he did something drastic.

"I…" he started, but Jack had opened his mouth first.

"Don't believe Mush did it," The cowboy said. "I know him. Mush wouldn't do that, Dave."

Snipeshooter butted in, then. "Yeah, well, Cowboy, we thought we knew ya too. But then who went _scab_, huh?"

_That _was out of the blue, but Blink didn't care one bit--- Jack was getting ticked off at Snipeshooter, not him. That meant that he might have a chance to slink away without Jack noticing. He started to back up, watching carefully as Jack snapped back:

"What's that gotta do with Mush?"

"Well, if _you_ can turn on us, who says Mush can't?" Snipes said matter-of-factly, and as Jack glared at the smaller boy Blink started to take off again.

"Blink!" Dave cried, as Blink fled like a deer running from hunters. "What—where are you going?"

Blink didn't reply, not looking back at all. He couldn't look back. Jack and Les and Dave and Snipeshooter thought Mush did it. And Blink couldn't face it. He couldn't face any of it.

Everything was his fault.

….

Race

The noise of the tracks was overwhelming; a combination of boos and cheers. Horse hooves pounded on gravel in a flurry of excitement. The stands were _packed _today, absolutely filled, and Race was making more money than he'd made in…well, a long time.

It was grand.

He was taking a break now, though, leaning up against the rails and watching the horses. Race's horse, Milky White, was neck and neck with Paul Revere, but Race _knew _that Milky White was going to win. He could feel it in his bones. Call it a gambler's sixth sense.

"C'mon! C'mon!" He screamed, waving his hat in the air as the horses thundered past. "_Run!_"

The mare was doing her best, running as fast as she could, but Paul Revere was doing better. At the very last second of the race, right to the finish line, he pulled ahead.

And won.

Race swore violently and let his hands thump on the rail. Not again.

"Race!" Someone said. Race didn't turn around. He knew that voice—he'd been expecting it. "Race, I gotta talk to ya!"

Race sighed. "Didja kill someone else, Blink, huh?"

"_No_!" Even though Race couldn't see him, he knew Blink was recoiling at the very idea. "No, Race, listen, can we go somewheres else, I gotta talk to ya and it's _crowded."_

Race glanced to his left, then to his right. The two men that he was squished between didn't look like they cared about orphan affairs. They were too busy looking at the contestants for the next race.

And Race didn't want to move anyway.

"No," He said finally. "We ain't movin'. Talk."

Blink's voice was wavering, trembling hard. He wasn't crying or anything—only pansies cried—but he was upset. Just like yesterday. Race almost felt sorry for the guy, and then remembered what he'd actually _done. _All pity disappeared.

"Mush got arrested. For what I done. " He said. "And Jack thinks that Mush did it. He thinks the bulls was right."

Race closed his eyes. "Didja actually _tell _him Mush did it?" he asked. His hands gripped the rail.

"Well…I…"

Race turned around then, pouncing on the shred of insecurity. Race liked to read people; it was what he did, how he won at poker. Blink's cowardice, his wavering voice, meant that he wasn't _sure _about anything. That was good. There was a glimmer of hope.

Race grabbed Blink's arm, not meeting the other's eyes. He ignored Blink's cries as Race's nails dug into his skin, leading him through the crowds, pushing him through the people, fighting their way through. They passed the stands, the vendors selling food, the hoity-toity folks with their _rich _stuff, without a word, until finally Race got Blink through the gates and they were standing by the entrance, facing each other.

"Race, you gotta help me!" Blink exclaimed. His hands gestured wildly, as if he didn't know what to do with them. "I don't know what---"

"Woah, woah, woah," Race interrupted. "It's okay. I know what you're gonna do."

"You do?" asked Blink. He looked like a puppy begging for a treat.

"Sure," said Race calmly. "You're gonna go back to Manhattan and tell Jack what happened. You're gonna spill the beans."

"What? No! I can't do that!"

Race paid him no mind, his eyes focused instead on the carriage coming up the road. It was heading towards Manhattan, the horses steadily clop-clopping on the hill. The carriage was just a regular one, nothing special or anything, but it was _just _the right size for hitching a ride on the back.

"C'mon," He said, and grabbed Blink's arm again, pulling him over to the road. He waited for the carriage to pass them, and then hurried over to the backside of the carriage, jumping on the back and holding onto the wooden side for balance. Blink quickly followed him, pulling himself up on the other side.

As the carriage kept going, Race spoke up. Normally, he would be furious, punching Blink into a pulp, yelling at him, but today he didn't feel like bellowing or _anything_. He was mad, sure, but somehow he knew Jack would do a heck of a lot worse once he found out what Blink did.

"You've never been in the Refuge, have you, Kid?" He blurted out, legs hanging loosely over the carriage.

"No," answered Blink. He shivered and looked down at the moving ground, avoiding Race's stare. "But you have, right?"

"Yeah," Race nodded. "And lemme tell ya, it ain't fun. If ya got any shred of decency, you'll make sure Mush gets out."

Blink looked up then, and cocked his head, asking a silent question. _What happened, Race? _

The gambler wasn't going to tell him, though. No sir. He wasn't like David; Race wasn't good with words at all. He could peddle papers, but that was about it—he couldn't pound _this _into Blink's thick skull. How was he supposed to describe the way the Refuge was-the fear Race had felt, the hunger, the beatings, the _guards? _Race couldn't very well up and tell Blink about it without sounding like a pussy, like a freak. He wouldn't understand anyway.

"Look, Blink, you just _gotta _get him out. Prison makes ya hard, okay? It kills guys like Mush, kills their insides rotten. Makes 'em not care. I know."

He did know, too. People he'd known that had gone into the Refuge had come out completely different. Cold. Hard. Unfeeling.

Some hadn't come out of the Refuge at all.

"…But Snyder's not there," Blink was trying to be optimistic. "Surely…"

"_It ain't gonna get better, Blink!" _Race sent back. "They's all the same, and Mushy's there for _murder. _They ain't gonna treat him nice! He'll come out, and he won't be Mush no more, he'll be somebody else, somebody all wrong!"

Blink didn't answer.

He simply bit his lip and stared out at the nearing Brooklyn Bridge, lost in thought.

Racetrack didn't disturb him.

They rode in silence the rest of the way back.

…

…..

……

But now they were standing in front of the Distribution office, and Blink was starting to fidget. Race had grabbed him and pulled him off the carriage and over to Newspaper Square, and he hadn't allowed Blink any room to protest. He was going to get Blink to confess to Jack and get it over with.

But Jack wasn't _here, _getting the afternoon edition with the others. He was nowhere to be seen.

"Guess we'se gonna have to look somewheres else," said Race. Blink didn't look too happy with that statement. "Where do ya think he'll be, huh?"

"Don't know," Blink squinted against the sunlight, searching through the crowds of newsies pushing by to get their papes. "Maybe…"

He trailed off, his good eye getting wide. Grabbing Race's shirt, he pulled him over to the side. Race spluttered and threw Blink's grimy hands off, wiping his vest carefully. Peering over the side of Blink's shoulder, he tried to see what the other boy was looking at. "What're ya—"

"Shh!" Blink shushed angrily, pointing a fingernail to his right. "I think they's seen us!"

"Who's seen—"

"Shh!" Blink said again, and jerked his head. "Them two guys. See 'em?"

"Uh…no…"

Wait.

Race _did _see who Blink was pointing at.

Two guys were leaning casually against the brick wall of a building, watching the newsies get their papes, just like Race and Blink. One was smoking, holding a pale cigarette to his lips, while the other simply stood there, his eyes large behind his spectacles. They were both holding ivory white canes and looked rather intent on finding whomever it was they were searching for.

"_Them are the guys that got the retard killed, Race," _Blink hissed. "_They's the ones that got me the four bucks."_

Oh. _Oh. _

So _those _were the scumbags that…

Race drew himself to his full height and started to move, his brown eyes blazing. He held Blink by the arm, his nails digging into flesh, as he pulled them over. Those jerks, those scum, those absolute _bastards, _had gotten Blink in trouble and put Mush in jail. He was gonna…he was gonna…well, Race didn't know exactly _what _he was going to do, but it had something to do with punching and yelling and getting angry.

"Race, stop!" Blink was being a pussy again. He was freaking out, clawing at his captor's arm. "_Please, _I don't wanna talk to 'em, I just wanna…"

"I don't wanna talk to 'em either," said Race, as he dragged Blink with an iron grip across the street, over to where the two men stood. "I'm gonna give 'em a piece of my mind, is all. Those low down, dirty—"

The two guys had spotted them now, the bespectacled man poking the other and pointing their way. Their faces were lit up, tense as they noted Race's fierce expression. They knew he was ready for a fight.

"Hiya!" The one with the cigarette, the one who had slicked back black hair, greeted warmly. He pushed himself off the wall and strode to Race and Blink, holding out a hand. "And how are you fine young men doing today?"

Race, taken aback, simply glared. Blink managed to squeak unintelligibly.

The guy looked startled, as if noticing Blink for the first time. "Say, Ed, come see a look at this!"

"What, Mickey?" said the other guy, drawing closer. "Wait, ain't that our young friend from…"

"Yeah, the one who got rid of the retard for us!" Mickey clarified, beaming. He clapped a hand on Blink's shoulder. Blink shrugged it off, but Mickey didn't seem to mind, his yellow smile never faltering. "And he's got a friend!"

"I ain't his friend," Race snarled. He was getting angrier and angrier by the second. "_I _ just wanna b—"

"Oh, sure, sure, you're worried about him getting caught, right?" Ed cut him off suddenly. His blue eyes lit up behind his glasses. "Well, you needn't be."

"Yeah," added Mickey. He dropped his cane carelessly on the ground and pulled a piece of newspaper out of his back pocket, handing it to Blink. Immediately, Race snatched it from the other newsboy, his eyes reading it over quickly.

_Killer found! _ The headline screamed. _Maniac Newsboy to blame!_

The article obviously wasn't big news—it was really rather small—but all the same it had managed to include a fuzzy photo of Mush. The picture had been ripped off from the strike the summer before, and Mush didn't look like a killer at all. In fact, Race thought he just looked kind of confused.

"So relax, kiddo," Ed said. "You're home free."

"Unless you want another job," muttered Mickey, almost to himself. _His _eyes were dark and cold and he stared at Blink curiously. Blink bit his lip and stared back. "Get Kelly off our backs."

"He ain't gettin' no one off your backs," Race snapped.

"Why, do _you _wanna do it for us?" Mickey's crocodile eyes switched from Blink to Race in an instant. "It pays real well, y'know."

"_I ain't doin' nothin!" _Race's accent was getting thicker as he got madder, digging back to his Brooklyn roots. "And Blink don't want nothin' to do with you neither. I came over to—"

"Say," Ed started. Race's eyes narrowed further. These two were treating him like he was a child and that was pissing him off. "Do you know a young fella called Jack Kelly? Tall, brown hair, a newsie? Ever hear of him?"

"Nah," said Race.

"Yeah," said Blink.

"Great!" Ed exclaimed, ignoring Race. He turned around suddenly and marched back to the building where he and Mickey had been loitering. The ground around the place was littered with stuff—there were a few bags, and a bottle of whiskey, and shreds of food. Ed ignored all of this, picking out something from the rubbish and walking back over to Race and Blink and Mickey again.

As the object came into view, Race's heart sank.

It was Crutchy's crutch.

He couldn't be _for sure, _of course, but Race's intuition told him he was right, and Ed clarified it by saying:

"Can you give this to him for us? Tell 'em we said the gimp's crutch helped us a lot; we're really grateful. Mickey here faked a limp and got _so many _customers, it was great!"

Mickey gave a low chuckle. "Yeah, took us forever to get that damn crutch off him, though. That kid's gonna need two of 'em now."

Race took the crutch, trembling. It was taking all his self-control not to break and just beat the shit out of those guys. Blink, on the other hand, looked stoic, his lips pursed. He didn't care that those jerks had beaten up a cripple just to steal a goddamn crutch.

Race sure did, though.

"So," Mickey said conversationally, watching Race with a satisfied expression on his face. "How well do you know Jacky-Boy, huh? Are you close? Enemies? Best friends? _Bosom buddies?_"

Race wanted to hit those guys so bad he could taste it.

They _knew _what they were doing too, goddamit. They hadn't met Race for more than five minutes and they knew exactly what made him tick. They _knew _that Blink would get all shy and quiet and not talk, and that Race would start to get madder and madder. Those guys, Mickey and Ed, they were pros at this. They knew just how to get underneath a fellow's skin.

"Aw, he looks mad," Ed said in a baby voice to Mickey, mocking Race. Then: "You and Jack _really _get along, don't you?"

And then Race broke.

He launched himself at the two men, snarling. It hadn't mattered about the insult, but Race was _done _taking their crap. He was rearing for a fight, ready for it, craving the battle.

….

Unfortunately, Ed and Mickey were too.


	5. Chapter 5

It doesn't take very long to know how tough or strong a person can be. Mush knew by his third day at the Refuge that he was neither tough nor strong.

He didn't want to be here, stuck in a place that he didn't deserve, branded with a crime that he didn't commit. He didn't like it in the Refuge, with its cold, dark, damp cells. He hated to be alone, locked inside a cell, without company or anyone to talk to, to share thoughts, or to laugh with. He wasn't used to the dark at night, or the awful food, or the lack of freedom, or _anything._

By three days, he was ready to get out. To leave.

He'd thought that, somehow, Jack or Race or _Blink _was going to show up by his window and spring him out. It was a hopeless, futile dream, of course, but it didn't stop Mush from staying up late at night, standing by the bars of his window, waiting for a friendly face to appear. He'd stay there, motionless, waiting for a long time, before finally retiring to his bed, always disappointed.

No one was going to show. Mush was going to be here forever.

The guards (Oscar, Morris, and a few others Mush didn't know) had told him that he _wasn't _going to be in this tiny little cell forever, that as soon as he "proved himself" he was going to be sent to the bigger rooms, the ones with other boys. He would have people to talk to, then. He could make friends, like Jack did; he could meet a kid like Spot or Race and become allies.

Until then, Mush was stuck.

He was sitting on his bed, now, his palms resting on his knees. It was nearing nighttime, the sun showing a brilliant array of colors in the sky. Mush could see the bay from his cell, could look at the purples and oranges and pinks reflecting off the dirty water. He noticed the gulls swooping down, grabbing fish with their claws, flying around carelessly. He saw their small outlines flapping in the breeze and wished, for a moment, that _he _was a seagull, that he could fly, that he could slip through the bars of the Refuge and soar away forever.

God, he wanted to get out so _bad!_

Footsteps sounded from outside, then, thud-thud-thudding on the wood. Mush stood stock-still and listened intently. It sounded like guard boots, like a Person in Authority. He heard the pair of boots clog along steadily on his floor, waiting with baited breath, hoping that they wouldn't stop at his cell.

They didn't.

Mush breathed a sigh of relief.

The guard had stopped in a cell close to Mush's though, a few doors down. Mush heard the doorknob turning and someone gasping, and then a guard saying something about a package.

Mush strained his ear, walking over to the door of his cell, poking open the little slit by the doorknob and peering through. He saw the opened door, and the behind of the uniformed guard, holding a small parcel behind his back.

The inmate—obviously an immigrant, from the tone in his voice—was begging for the package, for the something the guard was hiding. His accented speech was slurred with emotion as he begged: "Please sir, my mama sent it to me, she didn't know we weren't supposed to have packages, she can't read English—"

"Don't blame us for your mama bein' stupid," The guard said, and then he held the package out to the kid, holding it too high for him to reach, making him jump—

"Psst," said something from outside. "Hey, Mush!"

"Huh? Whozzat?" Mush jumped around, startled. Outside was a grinning Cowboy, holding onto the bars outside, a rope tied around his waist. He looked just the same as ever—well, of course, it had only been three days—and now he was smiling at Mush, his hat tipped over his eyes like always.

"Jack!" Mush yelped, and rushed to the window. "Jack!"

"Hey, Mush," said Jack, grinning widely at Mush's delightedness. "How's it rollin' in there?"

Mush shrugged. He didn't want Jack to think he was _scared _or anything, after all.

Even though he was.

Jack studied Mush for a moment, his brown eyes trailing over the awful nightgown they forced inmates to wear, over Mush's face, taking in everything. "Ya look pale," he said finally.

"I'm fine," said Mush offhandly. Then the puppy-dog excitement was back, bouncing around inside him, his eyes lighting up with joy. "Hey, it don't matter anyhow, right? That's why you've come, right Jacky? You came to bust me outta this joint, huh?"

In his mind, he was expecting Jack to smile back and agree, to nod excitedly and pull out a crowbar or something to break Mush out. That was what he had been waiting on; after all, that was why he was so excited to see Jack. He thought he was getting out.

Jack, however, didn't smile, and nod and agree to break Mush out. Instead, he looked down, almost guiltily.

"Nah, I didn't come to break you out," He muttered, fiddling with his bandana.

Mush felt the grin slide off his face. "Why…why not?"

"'Cause…" Jack sighed. He couldn't meet Mush's searching eyes, it seemed, he refused to look up. "Look, you ain't Crutchy."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mush demanded.

"It…" Jack started. "Look, it's…"

"It's cause I ain't a gimp?" Mush guessed. Then his brain put two and two together and he gasped, shocked. "Jack, you don't really believe I did it, didja? I swear I didn't do it, on my mother's good name, I swear, I didn't do nothin!"

Jack looked up, then. "Yeah, I know."

"So why can't you…"

"Look, Mush, have ya _seen _yourself in the papes?" Jack asked, then, bluntly.

Mush nodded. He had—Oscar had showed Mush an article—a whole story about how Mush was a killer, how he was dangerous and deserved to be hung for murdering a retard. Oscar had laughed at the whole thing, taunting Mush, knowing every second that Mush had never done anything at all—

Jack looked right into Mush's eyes. "Everyone knows who ya are, Mush. If we'se break you out, you'll be caught again, quick as anythin'. And you know them bulls will come to us newsies and break any kid's skull just to find ya."

Mush understood the logic, of course he did, he wasn't _stupid. _That didn't stop him from asking bitterly:

"Why'd ya come, Jack?"

Jack scratched his head. "I dunno, I just…well… I wanted to letcha know you ain't alone, is all."

Mush felt like screaming. He didn't _care_ that people were thinking of him at all, he just wanted to _not be scared _and not have to wear scratchy clothes and be able to _move _and talk to people and to not be in a tiny little cell all day. _Jack _didn't understand, he didn't, this wasn't at all like the Cowboy's stay in the Refuge.

There was a sound from the roof, a small grunt, and Jack looked up, a crease of annoyance lining his face. "Yeah, yeah, Dave, I'm comin'!"

He turned back to Mush, then, digging through his pockets, looking for something. "Here, Mush, I gotcha somethin'."

Mush cocked his head. "What?"

"Hang on, it's—oh, wait. Got it," and then Jack pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Mush through the bars. Their fingers touched, and Jack pulled away, alarm on his face. "Mushy, your fingers are _freezin'."_

"It's only August, they can't be _that _cold," said Mush, waving the comment off again. He held the photograph in one hand and stuck it up to his face, trying to see it in the dimming light. "Is this—"

"Yeah, it's the picture that Denton took," Jack scratched his neck. "Not the Sun photo, the other one. The one of us."

"Right," said Mush. "I remember."

And he did.

They were standing around the Horace Greeley statue again, crowded happily against the statue. The strike had just been won, Cowboy was back, and they had beaten Pulitzer. Everything was wonderful, as far as Mush was concerned, and he had even agreed to sit down for a bit and play craps with Blink and Race and Skittery because he was just that happy.

And Denton was there with his camera, and he was grinning too, and taking as many pictures as possible, wandering around with the clumsy machine and snapping photos of newsies. He took one of Crutchy, and then of Les, and then he came over to Mush.

"May I intrude, boys?" He asked, and Mush nodded, and the camera flashed—

Mush stared down at the photo. He was grinning at the camera, and so was Blink, his smile lighting up even through the black and white. Race was smoking, and Skittery was scowling, and if you looked close you could see the shadow of Specs, looming over the camera. Jack had popped in at the very last second, sticking his head up from behind the statue, grinning like an idiot.

"Race told me to bring it," Jack said. "He wouldn't let me leave without the damn thing."

Mush smiled. "How is he, anyway? How's everyone?"

Jack looked as though he rather wished Mush hadn't asked this question. "Fine," he said, unconvincingly.

Mush was suddenly overcome with panic. Someone had died, he was sure of it—someone had gotten knifed, thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge, gotten ill. And then he was worried that it was his fault, that Jack had only come to blame Mush for whoever had died, to taunt him outside the bars and hiss "It's all your fault, you killed him, you killed him you killer you killed him—"

Jack saw the alarm in Mush's face. "Woah, nobody died," he said. Mush relaxed a little bit. "Everyone's okay….except for Racetrack."

Mush's eyebrows narrowed. "What happened to him?"

"Some guys clobbered him a few days ago," Jack muttered, very quickly. "He's okay, but they, uh, broke his leg with somethin'."

They broke his leg? Mush wondered what they had hit Race with. It had to be pretty hard, to break a guy's leg… "Didja catch the bums who done it?"

Jack shook his head. "Neither him or Blink would tell me who soaked 'em."

"Blink was there, too?"

"Yeah, but they didn't touch him," Jack replied. "It's weird."

"Oh."

Mush wondered who it could have been. That was really low, breaking a kid's leg---it broke the code of the street completely, you weren't allowed to use weapons. Only a dirty fighter, one that didn't have any honor, would do something like that.

The other weird thing was that Blink hadn't been hurt too. Usually Blink would have wounds too—he would have fought back, defending his friends. So, Mush reasoned, he must have stood back and watched the whole thing. Which made no sense at all, because Blink didn't do that. Usually.

He also didn't kill people, either. Usually.

Mush opened his mouth before he could stop himself, words flowing out before he could choke them off. He let the photo flop to the ground. "Jack, about that murder…"

Jack blinked. "What about it?"

"I…uh…" Mush started. He wished he hadn't said anything. "I…"

"Yeah?"

He couldn't take it back, now, but what was he supposed to say? Mush wasn't going to blame Kid, he couldn't. Blink was his best friend, and he'd sworn that he wouldn't tell. "I know who done it."

Why had he said that?

Jack's eyes got big. He leaned into the window, biting his lip. "You do?"

"Uh…" said Mush intelligently. "Yeah."

And then, suddenly, he started to lie. They started pouring out of his mouth, just as easily as anything. "I saw it. That's why the Delanceys turned me in—they saw me runnin' away from it, they thought I did it, but I didn't, really…"

He had practiced lying, of course—he was a newsie, after all—but Mush had never ever lied to Jack before. But here he was, spinning tales that should have been only used when he was selling papers. Telling Jack that he had been there, but he hadn't done it, he'd only seen the end of it. Telling Jack that there had been two men, one with a mustache, stabbing the victim in an alley. Telling Jack that he hadn't really gotten a good look at them, but there had definitely been two.

At the end of the lie, Jack looked livid. "Ed and Mickey," he said to himself, ignoring Mush completely. "I knows exactly who they was. Ed and Mickey."

Mush didn't know who Ed and Mickey were, but he didn't want them in trouble with Jack. Especially since the whole story had been a lie. "Maybe it wasn't them, Jack, it was probably a mugger—"

"Nah, " Jack shook his head. "It was them."

'"Jack, maybe—"

"I'se gotta go," said the cowboy. He tugged on the rope, signaling Dave to help pull him up. He didn't look like Jack anymore, he looked like…well, he looked like somebody bad. Like Oscar or Morris. He looked like he could have murdered somebody. "See ya, Mush."

"Jack—"

"Take care," the other said quietly. "Ya hear me?"

"Yeah, I do, but—"

"Bye, Mushy," said Jack, and he swung himself to the side of the building, out of Mush's view, pulling himself up with the rope, climbing on the brick until he got to the roof.

Mush heard another hissed goodbye, and then footsteps, and then nothing. Silence. Jack was gone, and Mush was alone again.

He flopped down on his bed, curling into a tight ball on the lumpy mattress.

And then, finally, he let himself cry.

….

Cowboy

…

_Of course _it had been Ed and Mickey.

Why hadn't Jack thought of that before?

They'd never liked Johnny, they'd never cared, they'd always thought of him as an object of pity, as a way to make as much money as possible. And once they had been released from jail, after getting out, they had decided that they needed a new angle. A different one. And Johnny wasn't needed.

So they had killed him, and left Mush to take the fall.

"I'm gonna kill those guys," Jack muttered to himself. "I'm gonna _kill_ 'em."

He meant it, too, as he walked down to Delancy street, nearly at a run. Jack wasn't really sure where he was going—in fact, he had no idea—but that didn't matter. Jack needed to clear his head, to think. To plan how to kill Ed and Mickey. And his father.

David was gone by now, of course, dropped off by Jack at the Jacob's apartment, unwilling to go. Jack had ignored the Walkin' Mouth's curious questions, merely dropping him off, waving, and then sprinting away, trying to make sure Dave didn't follow. He didn't want any of the school-boy's sensible advice—he only wanted to follow the rules of the street. Jack had been born and raised a gutter-rat, and he knew very well the ways of the New York Underground.

An eye for an eye. They had to pay, and Jack had to do it.

_Dave, _of course, would drag him back, try to calm him down, get him to listen to reason. He would ignore Jack's explanations, not really knowing what it was like. _He _hadn't known Johnny, hadn't loved him like a brother, hadn't known him as a friend. Dave hadn't seen Mush, what was happening, how only after a few days Mush was pale and sickly. How miserable the kid was.

How miserable _Jack _was, wanting to break Mush out but not willing to danger the rest of the newsies.

Dave wouldn't get it, but it didn't matter. Jack had to find the rest of the gang.

But where?

They wouldn't be out trying to sell stuff—it was too late, the riffraff would be out. There were far too many bars to even begin to look…

Were they sleeping? Were they at a brothel? Were they on a train to somewhere far away?

They could be anywhere!

Jack stopped walking. He closed his eyes, remembering. Where did they use to go Before? What was their favorite spot at night? What—

Jack blinked. Opened his eyes.

He knew exactly where they were.

Mickey and Ed were at the Grand Dukes.

…

….

…..

The Grand Dukes was a boys' bar, stuck in an old, abandoned Bowery warehouse basement, owned and run by many of the toughest children in New York. The kids who ran the place—well, Jack didn't know any personally—but he did know they were members of a gang that stole, lied, and fought, all from five to fourteen. They drank, smoked, chewed, bought women—and they ran bars.

Ed and Mickey had liked to go there, bringing Jack along, to see shows that the boys had put on and drink and fight and sell things. Jack's dad had always come dutifully too, drinking as much as the other two but not fighting quite as much, merely coming to watch the entertainment. Jack had always—well, Jack had run around, drinking, smoking, talking to other boys, and watching. Always watching.

He'd known, talking to others, how far he could fall, how he could hit rock bottom and never resurface. Boys he'd met who hired themselves out as assassins, who gambled lives away, who walked the streets, who ran dingy little underground bars like this. Jack hadn't liked it at the Grand Dukes at all—it made him realize what a human being could truly come to.

But Ed and Mickey and (occasionally) Jack's Pop had loved it.

Of course.

Jack had come around the back entrance, slipping himself in through the old wooden door. It was only nine, but people had already started filling the room, walking down the creaky stairs to the basement. As Jack walked down them, hand on the railing; he could hear the murmurs of drunken men and the buzz of excitement in the air.

It was rat-baiting night.

He followed the stairs down and walked on, eyes trying to adjust to the dim light. Men and boys were sprawled out on boxes serving as chairs, carefully placed around a fighting ring that had been carefully sealed off with chicken wire. The room was so thick with smoke that Jack had to cough, waving the air around with his hand, trying to see.

"Attention all!" cried a small boy, wearing a large red waistcoat. He stood on a box, waving his arms, a top hat in one hand. "Th' rats will be a'fightin' in a minute, folks! Make yer' bets here!"

There was a mad rush to the young bookie, and Jack looked over, squinting.

Then—

Saw them. Mickey and Ed, waving sheets of paper, going to bet—

"Hey!" shouted Jack, but the hustle and bustle of the men drowned him out. The rats had been led into the pit, thrown into crudely from the cardboard box they had been kept in. They flew out, scattering all over the pit, their whiskers twitching evilly, black eyes glittering like beatles. Their coats were thin and even though the light was dark Jack could plainly see their bones shining through.

"And now!" shouted the kid, pointing to a corner in the back, "The dog!"

Cheers erupted from the men, as another small boy led a rat terrier on a leash to the fighting ring. That was what rat-baiting was---sticking vermin inside a pit and seeing how much time it took a dog to kill them. Primitive. Gory. A gamble. It was exactly what street kids and ruffians and hoodlums looked for.

Jack hadn't been here for a long time. He had never missed it.

The kid stuck the dog inside the pit, and then the fight began.

The shouting of the men drowned out everything, and Jack dragged himself—God, he hated rat pits--out to the middle of the room, trying to find them. It was too smoky, dammit, too dark, he couldn't _see _anything, he could only hear the shouting and the growling of the dog and—

"Heya, Jacky-Boy! Whaddaya know, whadda say?"

Jack jerked around, startled, and came face to face with a smirking Spot Conlon.

….

….

….

"Hiya, Spot," Jack said, rather bewildered. He spit in his palm and held it out. "Whatcha doin' here?"

Spot shrugged. His breath was reeking of cheap beer, and his eyes had a slight bloodthirsty look to them. He was wearing those red suspenders of his, still, though, Jack could see that even in the dark, and as Spot held out his hand to shake Jack's he could see they were tinged with white powder. "I'se havin' a relaxin' day in Manhattan, Jack-be-nimble. Havin' some fun, huh?"

"Yeah," said Jack. "Me too."

Spot smiled wider. "Brought me girl, too. Wanna meet 'er?"

No I don't, Spot, I gotta find 'em, I needta chat with 'em, I gotta— "Nah, Spot, I gots business. You seen a few guys around here? One's tall, with glasses, and then a guy with a mustache?" Spot cocked his head to the side, thinking. Jack bounced on his heels in impatience, but knew better than to rush Brooklyn.

"Might have, Jacky," Spot said finally. "I think they was causin' trouble earlier. Can't be sure, though.."

"What kinda trouble, huh?"

"Dunno," Spot winked. "I was, ah, busy. If ya catch me drift."

In the right circumstance, Jack would have laughed and clapped the smaller boy on the back, but it wasn't right and the only think Jack wanted to do was to get to Ed and Mickey. He didn't say anything.

"Here, lemme help ya out." Spot offered. Jack's eyes widened. The guy really _was_ drunk.

Spot Conlon _never _offered to help anybody.

"Lend a hand if things get rough, Jacky. Since I _know _ya East Siders are trash for fighting."

Now, _that _wasn't true, but Jack didn't want to get on a drunken Spot's bad side. He let it slide.

"Yeah, sure," Jack turned around and kept looking. The fighting was fiercer than ever and he could faintly see the small dog ripping into rodents like they were steaks. He looked away, searching for Mickey's tell-tale purple hat, or a flash of Ed's cane. If it only wasn't so goddamned _dark…_

"Jacky, is _that _who you're lookin' for?" Spot asked suddenly, pointing Jack at someone nearby, someone with a mustache and a purple hat and a cane. Jack blinked and nodded.

He took a deep breath and started to push his way through the smoke, steering himself for confrontation. Spot followed him, not even a sway in his step, looking as menacing as ever.

Mickey was watching the fight quietly, a small smirk staining his lips as he took in all the people around him. His hat was tilted slightly on his forehead, looking almost gaudy in the darkness.

Ed and Jack's father were nowhere in sight.

Had he gotten rid of _them, _too?

"Hey!" Jack yelled, striding up as confidently as he could to the man. Spot was behind him, lips tightly pressed together, ready to step in if anything "unusual" occurred. "Mickey!"

Spot, behind him, whistled sharply, and Jack felt more guys right behind him, big guys, their breath tickling the back of Jack's neck. There _were _benefits to knowing Spot Conlon, that was for sure. Even if the kid was drunk at the moment.

Mickey turned around, then, faking surprise, eyebrows going up into the purple fabric. He withdrew the cigar from his mouth and grinned at Jack. "Yes, Jacky?"

"I—" Jack began, still trying to sound confident. Even though he wasn't, not at all. "You—"

"Well, speak up," Mickey encouraged. Spot grunted, trying to get Jack to hurry up.

"You—" Jack started again, and that was when the dog started to bark again and he could hear the squeals of the rats and smell their blood and the shouts of the men and remembered, remembered everything, remembered what it was like when he was younger how he had struggled how cruel they'd been and why his childhood was gone from him forever and how horrible it was and what was going on and Johnny was dead and Mush was in the Refuge and why was he so dizzy, what was going on, why was it going all dark—

"_Cowboy?" _someone yelled

—_Spot, it's Spot—_

"Catch 'em, Baby John!"

--_what's going on—_

"Geez, Jacky, I didn't know my face scared ya _that _much, huh?

Mickey. That's Mickey. I gotta get up, gotta stop 'em, gotta—

Jack was dizzy, and falling, falling, falling, collapsing into Baby John's arms, feeling pathetic but not really caring, the dim light going even dimmer as his eyelids started to close and his head fell back and—

"Aw, man, the guy's _fainted!"_

Jack had indeed.

A/N: I stole the idea and the name of the rat-fighting thingy from Kevin Baker's novel, _Dreamland. _Go and read it.

(After you've reviewed, of course!)


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